


for the light and barbarous gold

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e07 Hook Man, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-10
Updated: 2007-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The things I could do with a paintbrush."</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the light and barbarous gold

"The things I could do with a paintbrush?"

Sam can't keep the incredulous child out of his voice. It's habit. With Dean.

Dean who just smirks, wordless, his own small victory.

The frat boy's gone for the night, beer and a party, post-game highs. He leaves the paint behind, still thick, almost black in the cool moonlight, and the chipped mug full of brushes. Some of them are unwashed, useless, but Sam picks one out, runs its smooth bristles down one arm.

Dean only grumbles a little bit when Sam tugs the shirt over his head, broad back bare in the light. Some residual college code stops him from tumbling the two of them into the frat boy's bed, though it's a nest that looks like it might actually benefit from sex scent and musk instead of dirty socks and too much cologne. They find old sheets rucked into one corner, and Sam snaps them out casually to flutter on the floor, milky white pile. Dean goes without too much protest, hunching in on himself a little, as if he's self conscious, though Sam's never known his brother to have an ounce of shame about his body.

He shouldn't; it's beautiful. He saw this before, and he can say it now. Lean, golden length real and softly moving against the white of the sheet, the drowsy dark of the room. But Sam can see how open it is, his brother's back, canvas of scars, how it tells too many stories for Dean ever to be comfortable. There are unfamiliar scars, just silver traceries, the faint ropy wriggle of rough stitches. _Not if I'd been there_ , he thinks, because he really does have good hands, for a needle, a paintbrush, a knife. And then, _Dad, never careful, marking you up like this. He shouldn't have._

Now is about relearning things that have rusted between them, the sweet salt of the back of Dean's neck, short hair and soft skin, scatter of freckles, still tender between his teeth, his brother's groan still sharp. There's half a curse that curls out rough, Dean, when he pushes, his hand, bigger now, long fingers, splayed over the knobs of Dean's spine, his back, darker olive against pink gold flesh, all of it hazy in the moonlight.

"Hold still," he whispers. "Just - "

But he doesn't really need to say anything else, because Dean quiets himself for Sam, muscles peeling back from their tension, suddenly smooth like water, pliant, beautifully pliant, but still hard.

Dean inhales sharply at the first touch of the brush, and Sam knows it must be cold, but he's distracted, by the rough catch of Dean's skin, the way bone and muscle rise to stroke the brush in new directions, how the skin, already painted with freckles, with scars, other unseen things, just soaks up the paint, so stark. He curls his wrist, fingers splayed along the handle, casual, and the tip goes with him, twirling prettily, lazy designs that draw dark lines and sighs from the body beneath him.

"Am I supposed to guess?"

The voice startles him because he almost wasn't expecting a living one in his daze.

"What?" he pauses with the brush, arms tense.

There's amusement warm in Dean's rumble, deep now.

"What you're writing, geek. Is it Latin?"

He shakes his head, not remembering Dean can't see it, and picks up the brush again. Another stroke, another sigh.

"No, no, nothing."

Then the brush isn't enough, and he lets it clatter back into the mug, dirty, with thick paint and the faint salt of Dean's skin, his sweat. Sam grinds the heel of his own hand into the pattern, smearing it, flesh digging into flesh until Dean arches up against him a little.

"Sam, what - "

He skitters his fingers down Dean's spine, gets another half choked noise, sweet in the dark. They're sixteen and twenty again, tight cap on all their little animal sounds. Don't wake Dad, a child's game they're too old for.

The jeans are a little tougher to get off, but he manages, hands all over the soft skin, so soft, of Dean's belly, flat and warm to the touch, roughness of his outer thighs, the way it smooths higher up, riding the crease of his hip, and closer in, toward his cock, flushed full red, hard and beautiful in Sam's hand. His hands are dark with paint, smelling of it, so he only uses them to spread one cheek, then the other, smearing the sharp, bitter scent as he goes, artificial taste in his mouth, above the skin, pale, not ready for it. Dean's hole is a little, puckered thing. Delicate. He doesn't want the paint to get messy, so he bends into the damp warmth, nosing at the curve until Dean swears into the sheet, into his pressed arm.

First lick is soft, fluttering, just teasing, angling for another curse, another squirm. Then he's more serious, a deliberate stroke, rough tongue and a trembling shudder of flesh, hot around him, sweaty. He automatically palms one thigh, ignoring the streak of dark branded there now, almost too close to that soft skin, gold hairs, pushes it, spreads it so he can open his jaw, tilt his head. He goes deep, into that rich, dark scent, warm place, sweet place, because it's his brother, strokes like he's kissing a girl, gentle swirls against resisting flesh. The sound that's ripped from Dean carves a hot line under his jaw to his belly, so sharp, so open.

He doesn't stop, just holds his brother's legs open and uses his mouth, until he can feel it slicking around him from his own spit, loosening beautifully, little tremble of muscle. Dean's quiet, maybe biting his tongue to keep so. It's not in his nature usually, and Sam can smell the sweat, taste it, knows he's got Dean strung out to breaking, covered in paint and spit and warmth. It's a remembering, what he's doing, set to a rhythm the both of them know, so he doesn't fight it, not at all.

In the morning, the light's much heavier, and the paint flaking off both their skins, florid purple again, not the dramatic dark of the night before. Dean lies curled around him, mouth sweet in sleep, stubble glinting a little in the light. He seems more naked in the light, the dried paint marking him in odd bands all over, curling onto his chest from his back, scattered around his spine, his thighs, a little bit, incongruously, tangled in his mussed hair. He holds on like a child, like a man with his child, one hand around Sam's waist, tugging them together.

Sam slides one of his own between Dean's legs, moving up past the soft weight of his balls to that puckered hole, still swollen, a little wet, all Sam. He doesn't slide his fingers in, just lets them linger there, stroking, remembering.

It wakes Dean up, sleepy little flash of lashes, sour breath, his legs moving apart, making room for Sam. He always has.

"Paintbrush, huh?"

His humor is faint this morning, lazy from sleepiness. Sam watches the light on his eyes, making them clear, the way it plays across all the tired planes of his face, dear again, only a little older. His mouth is ripe because it always is, little white flash of teeth in his half smile, quiet, unlike Dean, who fills rooms. They're warm in the morning, on the hard floor, blue smudges of near misses and hard walls now stark beneath the paint, sheets sour with the scent of them. Dean closes his eyes again, not ready to be awake yet, his thighs cradling Sam's hand, shoulder bumping his companionably, readily.

It's a good moment.

*


End file.
